“The quiet valley of Sinaia has quite changed its character, and is now like a colony in the back woods, with wooden huts and wigwams. Twelve to fourteen languages are spoken on the place where the castle is building. The overseer of the works is the Court sculptor, Martin Stohr. His wood-carvings adorn the Castle and the Palace in Bucharest, and remind one of the first period of the Renaissance by their wonderful finish. Upon a great height among the gigantic forests, and on soil belonging to the Prince, is a magnificent stone quarry which furnishes all the stone required for the building of the castle. A small railway leads up to it, and there the Italian workmen have taken up their abode. The building of the line of railway through the Prahova Valley was begun at the same time as that of the castle.” But the footsteps of the Princess became weary and weak again, till illness once more completely prostrated her. As she lay in bed for months, unable to put her foot to the ground, the Princess, as has already been mentioned, found courage to write down a complete account of the life of her remarkable brother, Prince Otto. Princess Elizabeth was content, in spite of her sufferings, and wrote to her mother on the 28th of November:--“You cannot fancy how grateful I am for the quiet that this winter brings. I have so often said to God in the course of the summer--‘I can no more’--that He has shown that my strength is at an end, and that I must concentrate and recover my powers. No turbulent wave swells into my boudoir, and the restlessness without only feeds the world of thought in my quiet room.” * * * * * “_4th December._--This quiet is more than a blessing to me. During the last year my mind and body have been craving for rest. Now I have at last attained to it, and am very thankful. Why are there so many commonplace people and so few that are interesting? They all keep a firm hold on me, like so many leeches, and do not understand that quiet peace is the ideal of life, the highest aim of the Epicureans.” * * * * * “_13th December._--I have finished another story, but it is a very sad one. The pictures my fancy paints are seldom bright; indeed they never were. My childish stories even were always sad and dreadful. I think that laughter dwells outside, and not within me, and is but hung about me like a bright garment. Or is it the wonderful brightness of your nature and my father’s which is struggling within me, or is it life and its sorrows? Are our sad experiences alone worth dwelling upon? Who can tell?” * * * * *